


Happiness, tube socks, and other cliches

by cunninglingus



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, dork!chris, the grandma ships it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cunninglingus/pseuds/cunninglingus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is befriended by batty old Mrs. Hemsworth against his will. </p><p> He certainly wasn't expecting her to have a grandson who looks like <i>that</i>. </p><p>A dork chris au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [furiedheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/gifts).



> so i was thinking, tom's always written as the dorky one.  
> then this happened.
> 
> To my love Alma.

 

Tom thinks his first mistake was accepting the rhubarb muffins from Mrs. Hemsworth in the first place.

 

Well, not _mistake,_ per se; Tom wouldn’t be so callous to say that.  She had been kind enough to bring him a housewarming basket of goodies shortly after he moved into his new condo, and Tom was touched by the neighbourly gesture. He’d felt inclined to invite her in for tea - it seemed like the polite thing to do at the time - and when she emerged some four hours later, they were _best of friends,_ whether Tom liked it or not. The muffins were, to Tom’s chagrin, delicious.

 

Maybe he’s being unduly harsh. Mrs. Hemsworth is a perfectly lovely old lady…... _in small doses._ Tom thinks she’s something of a relic of a bygone, leisurely age, when people were in the habit of dropping in unexpectedly for afternoon tea; when their hosts didn’t have to take conference calls or hit the gym before the after-work rush. She beetles over the second she sees him pull into his driveway, as though she’d been sitting at her window, _in wait,_ like a trap-door spider.

 

Tom tries to create boundaries. He does. He tries to tell her that he’s just on his way out again and doesn’t have time to talk, but she plies him with fresh garden produce and now here she sits, cradling a teacup in her withered hands; her pale blue eyes twinkling with what could almost be mischief.

 

Tom smiles weakly as she yaks at him about neighbour so-and-so, whose daughter so-and-so married a no-good dutchman and is now stuck running seed potato farm - Tom is never really sure if she knows what she’s talking about half the time, or if any of it is true. She beams at him fondly, and because he misses him mum and Nan back in England, Tom melts a bit. She’s wearing white socks underneath her satin one-inch pump shoes, _and_ hose, _and_ her knees are dirty from having just been mucking around in the garden. Tom can’t say anything, though, because she’s brought him fresh strawberries and he doesn’t want to appear ungracious.  If she didn’t seem so simple and innocent, he’d think she had brought them _knowing_ she’d get a visit out of it.    

 

She adjusts her dingy, pilling white cardigan over her slim shoulders, and makes sure her orca brooch is firmly in place.

 

“My son is a _scientist,”_ She says proudly. “He’s doing climate research in Antarctica.”

 

“Okay,” Tom says. Tom has only known her for about a month, but this does seem like something she would say.

 

“But I talk to him on the internet,” She goes on, “You can use the computers now to visit face to face! It’s called _Skype._ It’s wonderful.”

 

“Really,” Tom subtly checks the time. He should have left for the bank ten minutes ago. It’ll be closed if he went now. He sighs. Looks like he’ll have to make time to go tomorrow instead. “Skype, huh.”

 

“Yes, you should get it to talk to your mum! So much better than just phoning.”

 

“Yeah,” Tom says idly. Wait, is the bank even open tomorrow? Ugh. It’s a stat holiday.

 

Pearl lights up. “My grandson could set it up for you! He’s a whiz at all that computer business.” Her face goes gooey, “He helps me so much. So good, my Christopher.”

 

Tom’s shoulders slump, and he lets out a long drawn out sigh.

 

“That’s nice,” Tom says.

 

***

 

Mrs. Hemsworth bakes him a mincemeat pie when she hears its his first birthday in America, and that he’ll be spending it away from his family. She puts a candle in it too, which is oddly sweet, and Tom, despite himself, is charmed.

 

“Come over for supper,” She pleads. “I have eggnog in my freezer saved for special occasions.”

 

“It’s okay,” Tom says, perhaps too quickly. He kicks himself, because she means well, and he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. “I mean, I have plans.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Tom sighs. He’d hoped she wouldn’t need any further elaboration. By plans, Tom means ordering in Chinese food, drinking wine and maybe jerking off. Not that supper with her would be terrible, but Tom was looking forward to a quiet night in. He’d run himself ragged trying to set up his condo since he moved, and now that he’s somewhat settled in, he’s in the mood to celebrate. Alone.

 

“With a friend,” Tom says.

 

She pauses. “A lady-friend?”  


Tom hems at this. He shouldn’t have lied in the first place! One tiny white lie - fine. But he doesn’t know how she’d react to learning that Tom is gay, and he doesn’t have the energy to go into details about his sexuality to a half-senile septuagenarian.

 

Tom smiles weakly. “Just a friend.”

 

Pearl hums, scrutinizing him, then shrugs good-naturedly. “Well, what about tomorrow?”

 

Tom shakes his head. “I have movie tickets.” That at least _is_ true.

 

“Sunday, then?”

 

At this, Tom draws a mental blank. She gazes at him, bright and hopeful, her eyeballs magnified twice their size within her bold-framed glasses.Tom feels something like a cornered prey animal. He slumps his shoulders in defeat; there’s no way he can refuse a third time.

 

“That sounds nice,” he says.

 

***

 

“Sorry it’s just us,”  Pearl gushes as she guides Tom into her bungalow. Tom is immediately overwhelmed by all the _stuff_ everywhere - tiny orca figurines, family pictures, and bouquets of sun-bleached fake flowers. The couch has a semi-translucent plastic cover on it…. _of course it does_. The place is musty, but whatever she’s making smells delicious. “I meant to invite Christopher, but he’s at the dojo tonight. He does _kara-tay.”_

 

She points to a picture on the wall. It’s of a blond boy in a white karate outfit, maybe thirteen or fourteen, his gaze wistful and faraway. He’s got a ridiculous mushroom bowl cut circa 1995. He’s posed stiffly in front of a galaxy background, and Tom almost cringes on his behalf. Yes, that is pretty much what he’d imagined this _Christopher_ to look like.

 

“Wow,” Tom says, for a lack of a better thing to say.

 

“He teaches the children there,” Pearl beams adoringly at the pictures. “He has a black belt.”

 

“Wow,” Tom says again, stifling the urge to rolls his eyes. There are a _lot_ of pictures of Christopher - mostly of him doing karate, but also of him as a child in what looks like a tap-dancing costume, and another of him in full scottish kit, playing the bagpipes. “Looks like he was a busy boy.”

 

Peal laughs brightly. “Yes, Christopher always was precocious! Talented, too. Shame he dropped tap after Nationals though. Mostly he just works with computers now. He does repairs out of the basement. And of course, the _kara-tay._ ”

 

“Uh-huh,” Tom winces at a particularly awkward looking recital picture, featuring Christopher and a little ginger girl in matching black and red sequin outfits. In this one, Christopher looks like he’s saying _cheese_ a little too enthusiastically, his teeth a jumble in his mouth. “He lives here?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Pearl says, offering Tom a glass of what must be thawed eggnog. Tom feigns a sip - God knows how long it’s been in her freezer. “For almost his whole life, in fact.  First I took care of him while his dad was off in Antarctica, and now he takes care of me. Such a sweet boy, my Christopher. You should meet him sometime.”

 

 

 

***

 

Tom is released some three hours later, stuffed to the brim with Pearl's home cooking and very much in need of a cigarette. Pearl had packed him about four days worth of leftovers, which Tom couldn’t have refused even if he wanted to, and had sent him off with a hug and a kiss to the cheek.

 

“She likes you, eh?” His new next door neighbour, Pat, teases as Tom walks up his drive.

 

“I guess so,” Tom says.

 

Pat laughs, shaking his head. “You poor, unfortunate bastard.”

 

Tom smiles tightly and chooses not to respond.

 

***

 

Tom manages to steer clear of Pearl for the rest of the week, not _necessarily_ because he’s trying to avoid her, but because it’s his first big project at this new firm and Tom’s itching to make a good impression on his colleagues. He stays late every night and works through lunchtimes, knowing full well he’s getting stressed out by the way tension seeps deep into his neck and shoulders.

 

By the following Saturday, Tom is completely exhausted, and decides in advance to feign sickness should Pearl invite herself over for a visit. He’s entitled to a little time to himself, isn’t he??? He’s a grown ass man, he can do what he wants! He shouldn’t have to justify his choices to anyone! And here he is, in self-imposed isolation, hiding from a woman who looks like a goddamn bushbaby.

 

It’s not his proudest moment, but Tom caves and drives to a nearby 711 for cigarettes, knowing full well he’ll hate himself for relapsing after having gone smoke-free for nine months. Just one or two, and he’ll flush the rest. He deserves it. It’s been…..a long month.

 

He’s already frustrated with himself when he’s backing out of his parking spot, and doesn’t notice the figure that springs into his rearview mirror before it’s too late. 

 

The car makes an awful _clunk_ sound, and Tom hits the breaks in a panic, frozen in shock. 

 

“Oh my god,” Tom breathes. With mounting horror, he realizes what he’d just done. He bursts out of the car at breakneck speed, babbling incoherent streams of _oh god, oh fuck, oh sweet jesus._

Tom rushes towards the figure lying prone on the pavement behind his car, all thoughts of his petty personal problems suddenly very far away.

 

“Oh God, I didn’t see you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry -” Tom rambles as he crouches down, but his voice catches in his throat abruptly, rendering him mute. The man is blinking up at him is, in no uncertain terms, the most _beautiful creature Tom has ever laid eyes on,_ and that’s saying something, because Tom has met David Beckham on two distinct and non-consecutive occasions. His beauty isn’t even diminished by the filmy layer sunscreen slathered in a thick slimy paste across his nose.

 

“Are you ok?” Tom asks, swallowing thickly. He hovers his hands above the man, unsure if it’d be proper to touch him after having just mowed him down with his Hyundai. 

 

The man props himself up on his elbows, his helmet askew, and dusts off his bright orange hawaiian shirt. Tom is relieved to see that he _seems_ fine - fully conscious, no broken bones, no blood - although he looks rather dazed, blinking up at Tom as though Tom were a very very bright light. He’s also _huge -_ well over six feet at least, although it’s hard to tell for sure when he’s sprawled out on the ground like that.

 

“Do I have to call an ambulance?” Tom blurts out. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. It was my fault, I have a bit of a blind spot. I should have been paying closer attention...”

 

“No, that’s ok,” the man says, peeling himself off the pavement. “I just -” He reaches into what Tom is horrified to call a _fanny pack_ and pulls out an inhaler.  He takes a long puff on it, holds his breath, and exhales. Then, in one swift motion, he picks himself off the asphalt, so suddenly that Tom is not even able to offer him a hand.

 

“I just, I feel terrible,” Tom goes on, bewildered, as the man repockets his inhaler. Standing, this guy over 6’5, although Tom notes he’s wearing inline roller blades, with white tube socks rucked halfway up his calves.Tom keeps his arms outstretched in case the man topples over, although in truth Tom knows there’s no way he’d be able to catch him if he fell. Surely there are worth deaths to be had than being crushed underneath two hundred pounds of premium beefcake.

 

“Could I get you a drink of water, at least?”

 

The man adjusts his knee and elbow pads, looking ruefully off in the distance. “Well…..”

 

Tom follows the man’s line of sight, towards the sea of blue sludge sloshed across the pavement. A Big Gulp cup lies upturned and forlorn in the gutter.

 

Tom shrinks, feeling more sheepish than before. “Look, let me buy you a new one. It’s the least I can do. Please. It’ll make me feel better.”

 

The man sniffles a bit. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah!” Tom exclaims. “Uh, you want some more of the blue kind or….”

 

“Blue raspberry,” The man corrects. “But I like to mix a little orange flavor in too.”

 

“Okay,” Tom says slowly.  “Sure. Um, wait here, kay?”

 

The man nods, and Tom scurries back into the 711, feeling more than a little red under the collar. The clerk eyes him, and Tom blushes even more, certain she’d seen the whole incident. He dutifully fills a new slurpee cup up with blue gunk, half-sickened by just the sticky-sweet smell of it. His teeth ache. God, he didn’t think anyone over the age of twelve still bought these things.

 

“He’s ok,” Tom assures the clerk with a weak smile as he tosses her some bills. “Uh, keep the change.”

 

The man is chewing casually on what looks like a gummy worm when Tom emerges, fresh slurpee in hand. God, it’s should be _illegal_ to consume that much sugar at once.

 

“Thanks,” the blond man says, accepting the enormous cup from Tom’s now cold clammy hand. He takes a overly generous slurp through the straw and smacks his lips.

 

Tom shifts on his feet, trying desperately not to stare. “So, uh, do you want my information or something? In case….” Tom’s voice trails off as the man’s face suddenly contorts into a pained grimace. He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, seemingly in agony.

 

“Are you okay?” Tom asks, horrified anew.

 

“Brain freeze,” the man says, and after a few horrid seconds his features melt back into their rightful positions. “Ahhh…”

 

Tom clears his throat awkwardly. "Uh, I was saying, you wanna exchange information, in case something should come up?”

 

“Naw,” The man waves his hand. “S’okay.”

 

 “I really do feel bad, though. Maybe, uh, maybe I can make it up to you somehow?”

 

 _Like dinner? Drinks? Long, sensual massage?_  

 

The man shrugs loosely, and only offers another hurried _s’okay_ over his shoulder before promptly roller blading off into the distance, leaving a very stunned Tom in his wake. Tom watches until he turns the bend and out of sight, wondering idly how he’d managed to miss him in his rearview mirror when he’d been wearing that neon orange shirt.

 

“......Okay,” Tom says to himself.

 

Yes, he definitely needs a cigarette.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my darling alma. You know ilu, right???  
> *head butts*
> 
> Check out my [Dork!Chris AU tag](http://teresa-dances-in-sequins.tumblr.com/tagged/dork%20chris%20au!) for more really lame dorky shit relating to this story. you won't regret it.

Of course, that is Christopher.

 

Tom learns this two Sundays later, while he’s in the process of losing his shit over his laptop.

 

 _“Fuckkkk,”_ Tom curses, tugging at his own hair and resisting the urge to bash his black, lifeless computer back into working order. His big presentation is the following morning - the one he’d been working on for weeks - the one that could make or break his career - and of course, his computer had to crap out on him tonight.Tonight. _It just had to fucking be tonight._

 

Tom is on the verge of tears, staring blearily out his office window, when  Pearl’s enthusiastic face pops into view, waving at him like a maniac.

 

“God no,” Tom whimpers to himself. “Please.”

 

“Yooooo hoooo!” Pearl calls, her voice muffled from outside. She raps on the window excitedly with her knuckle. “Tom! Tom! Hi, Tom! Yooooo hooooo! Tom!”

 

Sighing, Tom gets up. No point in pretending he’s not home.

 

“Hello Mrs. Hemsworth,” he says, utterly defeated, as he opens his front door.

 

“Hi Tom,” Pearl says cheerily, oblivious to Tom’s sour mood. “I haven’t seen you around lately. Figured you’ve been a busy boy, so I brought you a little treat!”

 

She holds up the bucket she’d been carrying up to Tom’s face, and Tom is instantly hit by a whiff of something pungent and salty. It’s lobsters. Live, wriggling lobsters. Tom recoils with a garbled _uuughhhhguhg!!_ sound.

 

Tom collects himself as best as he’s able, fighting back the instant nausea in his stomach. “Thank you, that’s very kind, but uh, I really don’t have time to talk. I’m kind of in the middle of  -”

 

Peal somehow squeezes past him and makes a beeline for Tom’s kitchen.

 

“They were on sale at the chinese superstore,” She calls, “$8.99 a pound. Everything’s so expensive these days. When I was a girl - back when we used to live in caves and hunt wooly mammoths, hohoho, don’t laugh too hard now, Tom - lobster was real blue collar food. Had lobster sandwiches for lunch. All the rich kids had salami. Imagine that! But I can’t make them for Christopher because he’s allergic to shellfish.”

 

“ _Lord give me strength,”_ Tom murmurs under his breath.

 

He shuffles into the kitchen, only to find Pearl crouching down, opening his cupboards like she owns the place.

 

“You got a pot bigger than this?” She asks, “Because I can run home and get mine.”

 

“Listen. Pearl-”

 

She strokes her chin in thought,“....Or I suppose we could put them in individual pots….”

 

“Pearl,” Tom says.

 

Pearl looks into her bucket, then back at the biggest pot she’d managed to find. “Pinchy here is going to have to go in this one, it’s the only one that’ll fit…”

 

“PEARL!” Tom shouts. Pearl stops and looks up at him over her glasses.

 

“Thank you. Really. This is really kind of you. But I have a huge presentation at work tomorrow - the one I’ve been working on for weeks  - and my laptop has gone bust and I can’t retrieve my files, I think I might have lost all the work I’ve put in and I’m about to go mental and I just, I DON’T BLOODY HAVE TIME FOR A LOBSTER COOK OUT.”

 

Tom stops short, taking a deep breath. Pearl is still crouching on his kitchen floor, surrounded by pots, peering up at him with wide eyes.

 

“Sorry,” Tom mumbles. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I’m just -” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, “Under a bit of stress right now.”

 

It’s quiet for a long time.

 

“You’re laptop is broken?” Pearl says at length. “Why don’t you bring it to Christopher? He could take a look at it.”

 

At that, Tom’s head whips up.

 

“Yes! Of course!” Pearl stands up, and pats Tom’s arm good-naturedly. “Christopher’s home right now. He loves this kind of thing. I’m sure he’d be able to help you.”

 

“That’s -” Tom exhales in grateful relief, feeling even more like an asshole for having lost his temper with her. “That would be marvellous. Thank you. I - I don’t know what to say.”

 

Pearl just smiles knowingly and pats Tom’s shoulder. “Say we’ll pick this up after we get your computer sorted.”

 

Tom shakes his head with a slight laugh. A lobster dinner in exchange for a computer repair? Even if it is with Pearl, Tom could certainly do worse.

 

“ _Deal_.”

 

***

 

“Christopher! Pumpkin! We have a visitor!” Pearl hollers as soon as she closes the front door, Tom in tow, his busted laptop cradled in his arms. She turns to Tom, a fond look in her eye, “I call him my pumpkin cos he’s my chubby-wubbers and always wears orange.”

 

“Kay,” Tom says.

 

Pearl cups her hand around her mouth.  “CHRISTOPHER!”

 

Tom jumps. Christ, she’s got some lungs on her. 

 

“He probably can’t hear us. We’ll just go on ahead downstairs.”

 

Tom’s frowns. He doesn’t know how he feels about her offering Chris’ services on his behalf, and he certainly doesn’t want to intrude on some geeky teenager’s private domain.

 

 “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother…”

 

“Of course not, Tom!” Pearl exclaims, as if horrified Tom would think otherwise. “That’s what neighbours are for! We help each other. Right?”

 

Although Tom is taller than average, he suddenly feels so tiny, dwarfed by this little old woman and her infinite supply of kindness and generosity. As if he could feel worse.

 

She waves Tom along and Tom dutifully pads along behind her, following her down into the basement. He’s led into a dark, den-like room, bathed in an eerie blueish glow emanating from a terrarium and not one but _three_ computer monitors. Like everywhere else in the house, there’s stuff all over the walls, but it’s too dark to really make much of it out.

 

“Christopher!” Pearl calls again, although gentler this time. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

 

The young man in question turns at last, pulling the headphones off his ears. He swivels around in his chair to peer over at his visitors, and Tom immediately recognizes that face. _That face._

 

It’s _him._

 

 _He’s_ Pearl’s grandson.

 

That……. that explains a lot, actually.

 

“Christopher, pumpkin, this is Tom. He lives across the street.”

 

Tom stops dead in his tracks. “You.”

 

Chris stares back at him. “You.”

 

Pearl’s eyebrows shoot up, looking back and forth at Chris and Tom. “You’ve met?”

 

Chris pulls the sucker out of his mouth, which has tinted his lips a purplish color. Even so, he’s as freakishly handsome as Tom remembers. Tom notes that this time, [he’s wearing a t-shirt with turtles on it. Turtles](http://www.t-shirt-world.co.uk/images/10_3515%20Find%209%20Sea%20Turtles%20T-Shirt.jpg). [His hair is down, hanging loosely at his shoulders,](http://teresa-dances-in-sequins.tumblr.com/post/113842443217/chris-hemsworth-just-being-perfect) like a goddamn Harlequin model. In a turtles t-shirt.

 

 “Yeah, he hit me with his car.”

 

Pearl turns back to Tom,  aghast. “That was _you?”_

 

Tom stands frozen in place, holding his laptop against his chest like it could protect him. It’s deathly quiet for a few horrible moments as they both stare at him.

 

“Well,” Tom coughs, “I…..um….…..”

 

“Is your car okay?” Pearl says, then her face cracks completely and she laughs brightly, patting Tom on the shoulder.

 

“My Christopher is a big boy,” Pearl declares proudly, then presses a kiss to the top of Christopher’s blonde head. Chris, in return smiles crookedly, not at all fazed by her coddling. “It would take a Panzer to bring him down.”

 

Tom giggles awkwardly in return, _ehehehe._ “I’m really, really sorry about that,” he says, sheepish.

 

“Oh, well that’s why we wear helmets, isn’t it?” Pearl replies. She turns to Chris, “Pumpkin, Tom here has some computer troubles. Would you mind taking a look at it for him?”

“Sure,” Chris says. He reaches out his hand and Tom passes his laptop to him. Tom swallows thickly as he catches a glimpse of those strong, veiny forearms.

 

“Well, you boys get acquainted. I’ll go make some Tang,” Pearl announces, then shuffles out the door, leaving Tom and Chris quite alone.

 

Chris turns the laptop around in his hands, inspecting it with an unfairly sexy-looking squint. He rolls the lollipop around in his mouth.

 

“So what seems to be the problem?”

 

Tom forgets to say something for a minute.

 

 “You’ve got….ah. um. There’s a lizard on your shoulder.”

 

Chris glances up for a second. “A skink.”

 

Tom blinks. “Excuse me?”

 

“It’s not a lizard, it’s a skink. A blue-tongued skink.”

 

“Oh,” Tom says, as if this meant something to him. It looks like a giant sausage with legs. The lizard peers up at him as though it _knows_ how painful this whole interaction is.  “Uh, what’s it’s name?”

 

Chris pets the lizard’s head fondly with a few fingers. “Pepperonie.”

 

“Cute,” Tom says.

 

Chris tucks the laptop under his arm and gets up, moving to put the _skink_ back in its terrarium. Chris is tall - Tom remembers that too - noticeably so, even without the roller blades. Taller even than Tom, but not by much. He’s wearing cargo shorts, tube socks that half-hang off one foot, and a watch that looks like it could perform graphing calculations. Tom’s chest aches.

 

“There you go, Pep,” Chris murmurs.

 

“I’m really sorry to interrupt - “Tom glances over to the paused video game, “Your, uh, thing. I don’t want to trouble you. I feel really bad -”

 

Chris waves his hand. “It’s okay. You’re my grandma’s friend. She really likes you. She talks about you all the time.”

 

“She does?” Tom says incredulously. He chews his lip, curiosity getting the better of him. “......What does she say?”

 

Chris pauses, making a brooding thinking face that, again, is almost unfairly sexy. It’s silent for a long while, and Tom begins to get freaked out at his lack of response.

 

“That you smell nice.” Chris says at length.

 

Well, okay. A bit weird, but Tom will take it.

 

“She talks about you too,” Tom offers with a weak smile. “I’m glad to finally get to meet you. Although I am sorry it happened the way it did.”

 

Again, Chris shrugs. “You can stop apologizing about that.”

 

“I hit you with my car!”

 

“Nudged me,” Chris clarifies with something like an indignant huff. He turns his attention back to the laptop. “So what appears to be wrong with it?”

 

Tom calmly explains what he’d been doing when it went kaputz, answering Chris’ questions as best as he can and trying hard not to focus on the way the lollipop swivels around in Chris’ mouth whenever he appears to be thinking. His tongue is purplish, too. Tom tries not to dwell on it.

 

“I think your fan is broken,” Chris says. “I have to open up your laptop. Is that okay?”

 

“Yes! Of course!” Tom exclaims, thrilled beyond measure that Chris has zeroed in on the problem. “Do whatever you have to do.”

 

Chris nods and reaches for a small case on a nearby shelf. He opens it, revealing a set of tiny tools - mostly small screwdrivers and tweezers. Chris sets Tom’s laptop on what looks like his work desk and sets about unscrewing the back.

 

“Just don’t go hacking into my internet history.” Tom jokes lamely in a vain attempt  to break the tension. “If you know what I mean. Ehehehe.”

 

Chris peers over at him, and to Tom’s horror, is completely oblivious. “No, what?”

 

Tom blinks at him.  “Like…... _you know_.”

 

Chris blinks right back, and Tom honestly just wants to crawl into a pit and die.

 

“Uh, nevermind.”

 

“No, tell me.”

 

Chris is still staring at him expectantly, and Tom’s face is so hot he’s might even catch on fire.

 

_Abort, abort._

 

“Like, you know, weird porn sites. And stuff.”

 

Chris just looks at him oddly, a faint note of concern on his face.

 

“I’m kidding.” Tom sputters. “That was a joke. I make bad jokes sometimes.”

 

“Oh,” Chris says.

 

“I just have normal porn on there.” Tom clarifies.

 

Chris makes that squinty analyzing face at him. _Judging_ him. He’s being judged by a grown man in a turtles t-shirt.

 

“Sorry,” Tom says quietly. “That also was a joke. Ehehehe.”

 

Tom clears his throat, eager to change the subject. “So ah, you think you can fix it?”

 

“Think so,” Chris says, a faint flush to his cheeks. He pull the case off, revealing the laptop’s inner machinery. He pulls out his sucker to blow away the dust that’s collected in all the nooks and crannies. “This is a common problem for this model.”

 

“Oh, god, that’s a relief,” Tom clutches his chest. “I thought I had broken it for real.”

 

Chris briefly glances back at him, “You really should be careful what sites you visit, though.”

 

“That wasn’t…” Tom begins, then sighs, muttering under his breath, “It was a joke.”

 

At that, Chris gets to work, cleaning out all the gunk that had jammed the fan. Tom watches, enthralled at the dexterity in those strong, capable fingers. Tom’s mind wanders to what _else_ Chris would be good at. He is something else, this Christopher. Pearl hadn’t been exaggerating about _that_ …….

 

Chris chews on his sucker thoughtfully and tosses the stick into a nearby garbage bin.  It was a Blow pop.A _Blow Pop_. God. Could a candy be any more gay than that.

 

“Here we go,” Chris says, pulling out a substantial dust bunny with his tweezers. “There’s your problem. Should be fine now, I think.”

 

And sure enough, when they reboot the computer, the desktop appears, Tom’s powerpoint presentation front and centre. Relief doesn’t even _begin_ to describe how elated Tom is.

 

 _“You’re a genius!”_ Tom exclaims, fighting the already-overwhelming urge to kiss Chris on the mouth. “You’re a genius, Chris, thank you, thank you, god, you have no idea - “

 

Chris just shrugs again, but his lip twitches like he’s enjoying Tom’s praise. “It’s no problem.”

 

“Let me take you out,” Tom blurts out before he can help himself. He coughs, but it’s too late to back out now _._ “For supper, that is. To thank you. It’s the least I can do for everything….”

 

Chris stares back at him, an unreadable expression on his face. It gets very quiet all of a sudden, and if possible, more awkward between them. Tom smiles weakly, unsure if it would be appropriate to press. God, Chris is almost _unnaturally_ good-looking.

 

How long has it been since Tom’s been properly laid?

 

Chris looks like he’s finally about to say something when Pearl bursts in, a tray of orange juice and what looks like slices of meatloaf in hand. Tom closes his eyes and exhales through his nose.

 

“Well?” She asks brightly, cutting through the tension like a warm knife through butter. “Did you boys get it working?”

 

“Yep,” Chris says, looking much more relaxed now that Pearl has returned. He takes a glass of juice and a hunk of meatloaf from the serving tray. Out of politeness, Tom does the same.

 

“Ahh, that’s my sweet pumpkin!” Pearl exclaims, beaming at Chris. She sets her tray down and leans in to press a kiss to Chris’ cheek, which he obligingly bends over to receive. “Didn’t I tell you, Tom? Didn’t I tell you? Isn’t my Christopher the brightest, smartest, most clever boy?”

 

“You did,” Tom says.

 

“Tom’s invited us out for supper,” Chris says.

 

Tom’s smile instantly fades. Wait. What?

 

“Really?” Peal looks thrilled, her blue eyes blown wide. She looks back at Tom, her wrinkly hands clasped together in excitement. “How nice!”

 

Tom just stands there, his mouth gaping, a glass of the wateriest orange drink he’s ever tasted in one hand, and a suspiciously tacky hunk of meatloaf in the other.

 

“Yeeeaah,” Tom says, because that’s the only thing that comes to mind. He tries to think of a way out of this but finds there isn’t one - not when Pearl is looking at him like that. She _did_ just save his career, didn’t she? He ought to be a bit more gracious.

 

Tom puts a brave face on his disappointment and forces out a smile. “How about Thursday?”

 

“That’s Grandma’s bridge night,” Chris says with a frown.

 

“Well hold on now,” Pearl hums thoughtfully, eyes narrowed at Tom, “Why don’t you boys just go out yourselves? Get to know each other a bit. I’m not the one who fixed Tom’s computer, after all…..”

 

“Grandma,” Chris protests.

 

Chris looks awkward, even uncertain, and Pearls pats him comfortingly, as one would a spooked animal. Softer than before, she adds, “It’ll be nice for Christopher to make a friend.”

 

She says this like maybe Christopher doesn’t have many friends, and suddenly Tom feels bad for lusting after him so intensely without even bothering to getting to know him first. Chris is weird, no question about that, but he seems like a genuinely nice person. They both are. It wouldn’t kill Tom to be a bit more accepting.

 

“Yeah,” Tom says sincerely. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

Chris shuffles on his feet, chewing on the gum from his Blow Pop. He glances at Pearl’s bright, encouraging face, then at Tom’s, and he seems to be swayed a bit. His lip twitches upwards in a shy smile.

 

“Okay,” he says quietly.

 

Pearl claps her hands. “Okay!”

 

“Okay,” Tom says, a flicker of excitement in his stomach.

 


End file.
